


leave and turn to dust

by pistolgrip



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, M/M, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 18:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21257642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pistolgrip/pseuds/pistolgrip
Summary: There is nowhere in this uneasy world to rebuild a home, but survival requires a special irrationality led by the heart.





	leave and turn to dust

**Author's Note:**

> happy halloween! and sorry in advance.

The pavement crumbles beneath their feet, and the smell of burnt rubber mixing with the overgrowth is pungent enough to choke them. This city has already been run to the ground, but if Siete's good at anything, it's finding worth among the shithole their landscape has become.

He leads their small group of three, careful not to start a commotion as they traverse through the ruins. They're at their limits; this leg of travel has lasted longer than usual, and although cities this large bring more danger than safety, they're ready to take their chances with finding shelter here.

In this city, he can count the amount of buildings that won't collapse at the first gust of wind on one hand. The first one of these that they step foot into makes the hairs on the back of his neck raise. The place is dilapidated, but with his eyes sharpened by the apocalypse's dawn, he knows how to recognize signs of life. Hugging the edge of the rubble are footsteps in the dust, a deliberate attempt to make it seem as though no one has been here.

This building wasn't ransacked and abandoned. They aren't alone.

Mindful of her volume, Song whispers. "Do you think it's another survivor? Should we call out for them?"

"They may be dangerous," Esser whispers back, quieter than Song.

The decision is made for them when a dagger flies out of an open door at the end of the hallway, lodging into the ground by their feet. "Leave," says a deep voice that sounds like it hasn't needed to speak for a long time.

"We can find somewhere else," Song hisses. She grabs his arm, but he brushes it off. As desperate as he is to find a place to rest, his curiosity about the voice is his driving force in taking a step forward.

"You would do well to listen to your friend," the voice continues. It rumbles at the same frequency as all of the ancient tells of danger: earthquakes, cornered animals growling, the world ending.

Siete slows his pace, but he doesn't stop approaching. He tries to make an appeal. "We just need a place to stay for a few hours. You don't have to share any of your resources."

"Space is a resource."

"You got me there." He cracks a smile. "How about a trade, then? You scratch my back, we scratch yours."

"If you do so much as lay a hand on me, you will no longer have so much as your life to trade."

"Not literally," he says, laughing it off. Behind him, Esser and Song ready their weapons. "Unless that's what you want. But it's a big city and you're here on your own. There must be _something _we could do for you in exchange for a few hours of rest."

"There is not a single thing you can do for me." The finality of the stranger's words make the other two more insistent that he retreat, but the tone makes Siete ignore them. He wants to know who it is behind this voice that sounds like it doesn't believe the words out of its mouth.

"Siete," Song warns behind him. "Let's leave him while we still have time to find somewhere else." She tilts her head towards the window, and he pauses to look at the sun tumbling down to the horizon, a gamble between two different deaths.

He can tell this stranger is yearning for contact, and Siete wants to be the one to give it to him—but he also knows their time is running out. No matter how small their group has become, they still trust him as their leader. He had an important decision to make for them, and he let curiosity override his survival instinct.

They're right. The resignation he hears could be because of _any _number of reasons, and it could be anyone behind that voice. It's a goddamn apocalypse out there, and everything Siete has to lose is pleading that he retreat.

Even if the stranger is alone, whoever he is, he doesn't seem to have any problems taking care of himself. "Alright, we'll leave you," Siete says. He doesn't know how well the stranger can see him, but he keeps his hands in a non-threatening position as he turns his back to the door and walks back the way he came.

While retreating, Siete stumbles on a piece of broken glass, crushing it under his heel and breaking the silence. Everyone tenses. Every sound is louder when all the world's been reduced to a hush.

"Wait." The word pierces through the darkness, landing its mark in their minds as clearly as the dagger by their feet.

Siete doesn't dare turn back to the voice, but he trusts the other two to cover him in case it comes to blows and he can't react in time. He looks at them, and they look back, gripping their weapons tighter.

"There is one thing."

He stays deathly still, not daring to move until Song and Esser's eyes widen with surprise. He tilts his head over his shoulder before turning around, still keeping his hands above his head.

The owner of the voice exits the darkened room, creeping like a shadow with the setting sun. He looks like a close-combat fighter with a spare gun on his person, holding onto a bound journal so firmly it might tear apart in his grip. The look on his face could knock Siete to his knees with its intensity, and he cracks a smile at finding someone so full of life in a world where everything is made of death and decay.

The stranger's right eye is completely clouded over by cataracts, and the other is well on its way. His eye contact with Siete is unwavering and fierce. "I can be convinced to allow you to stay for the night if one of you can read this for me."

* * *

The stranger has an elaborate alarm system for the infected. After giving it a thorough inspection, Esser and Song huddle in a corner with their thin blankets and fall asleep the moment they close their eyes. They trust Siete to distribute resources without overextending, and despite the reticence the stranger showed earlier, he offers what he can in return.

They sit at a table a few paces away from where the other two are sleeping, and they begin a trade of many supplies and little words. The windows in this room have been blacked out three layers strong, and it would feel claustrophobic if it wasn't a sign of security during the apocalypse.

When their trade is complete, the stranger picks up his journal and moves to sit next to him. The first thing Siete says that isn't about their trade is "I'm Siete, by the way."

The man says nothing, opting to push the journal towards him.

"Man of few words. I figured." Siete opens to the first page. "Should I read over this by myself before I say any of it out loud?" He knows that what he's about to read is to remain between the two of them. The other two wouldn't say anything if they heard its contents—who would they have to tell?—but the gesture is important, a basic civility in an amoral land.

"I don't care," the stranger grumbles. "Read it."

Siete looks at him for a second longer before he opens to the first page.

He's not sure what he's reading at first, but it's not his place to understand. Page after page is filled with daily observations or single sentence check-ins dated years ago, long before the apocalypse began. Judging by the way the man beside him is reacting to the name _Six_, he can infer that the journal is by his—Six's—father.

Six's wording earlier gave him the impression that he'd never heard the contents of this journal, but these pages are well-worn from repeated attention, not by the elements or casualties from the apocalypse. They're smoothed at the edges from someone's grip, and the ink towards the beginning of the journal is fading.

While Siete is one to speculate, he isn't one to pry. The apocalypse gave everyone baggage. As far as requests go, this is the easiest one Siete's received in terms of emotional and physical toll.

The entries document raising Six as a single father. It's peppered with short updates about continued ostracism from their family, but the journal entries were about the little things that _made it worth it _outnumbered those. He can't resist looking over to Six during some of these, finding what could be a smile on his lips.

The entries after the advent of the apocalypse are difficult to read. They try to retain optimism but bleed with the reality of the situation. Hesitating, he looks to Six, but he doesn't tell Siete to stop.

After a few more minutes, he doesn't have to be told. The entries stop abruptly by themselves. Siete looks through the rest of the pages to find them empty, except for a message scribbled on the inside of the back cover: "'These years have been hard with just the two of us. But I've never regretted a moment of being your father'."

Siete exhales heavily. Between these entries and their short time together, he can tell that Six would rather keep the things he cares about close to his heart. He must be suffering if he allowed a complete stranger to learn his story in exchange for less than an hour of comfort. Refraining from commenting, Siete closes the journal and slides it back to him.

He receives no response. Turning to look at Six reveals that he's fallen asleep. His arms are crossed, his head drooping slightly to the right, with a worried frown on his face. Even during a time when he should be unburdened by the weight of being alive, he looks troubled. It's been years since the apocalypse began, less since that last entry was dated, and Siete wonders if Six has been alone since then.

He blows out the candle and takes off his windbreaker to put around Six's shoulders. He watches to make sure he doesn't stir. He ends up watching for a long time, until the frown fades from Six's face and he looks as peaceful as anyone can be during the apocalypse.

Placated, Siete lays his head against the grimy wood and follows suit.

* * *

Despite the scarcity of resources, Siete leaves some of his personal rations behind for Six. He tries to make it discreet, but he finds signs of the other two doing the same. When he walks out of the room and is faced with the blinding sun through the windows, the other two are already waiting. The three of them exchange a look and say nothing.

Six hovers in the doorway to send them off. Siete stares for a moment too long. Encroaching blindness aside, he has a system that's worked for him, but knowing what he does through the journal makes Siete want to do _more _for him.

Before their small group leaves for good, Siete tells them to wait.

He rushes back, shielding their conversation from Esser and Song by turning his back to them. Under his breath, he says, "If you'd like to join us, the offer's open—but if you don't, that's fine. Take care. Give me your hand?"

Looking at him skeptically, Six uncrosses his arms and extends his right hand, keeping it close to his body. That's enough for Siete to take it in his, lay his palm up, and press a bag of tea into it—the last comfort, non-survival consumable he has. Six holds it close to his remaining eye, inspecting it, before returning it. "Keep it."

"Just for—"

"I'll come," he says, answering one question and raising another one that Siete forgot until now: _Why didn't I ask the other two?_

Six walks back into his room.

Siete turns to face the other two, dreading their reaction. He was irresponsible for making the offer without asking them, and even more so because he only extended it thinking Six would never accept.

As he feels dread and icy regret seep through his veins, Song smiles and calls out, "Let us help you." She pats Siete on the arm as she walks past him and into the room with Six.

He opens his mouth. "I—"

Esser raises a hand to stop him. "You'd only extend the offer if you thought he would work well with us."

She follows behind Song, and Siete follows after. At their enthusiasm, Six looks embarrassed for the first time, ears flat against the side of his head and avoiding eye contact as he packs and helps them take inventory. Siete tries to get involved, but the space feels smaller with four people inside. He waits by the doorway as they get acquainted with each other.

A key part of survival is retaining humanity in any way they can. Company they enjoy is just as precious as physical rations. He smiles as Six looks at him with a silent request to save him from Song's overly-friendly clutches. He knew they'd get along.

* * *

He thinks in another life, their group would be mercenaries. Their frightening survival instinct and undisturbed battle sense under pressure gives them an edge many other groups don't have, and Siete's relieved he found them before any less benevolent faction had.

Song was born in the mountains, isolated from big cities and concentrated civilization, with what couldn't be anything but superhuman vision. Her family's modest farming lifestyle had been passed down for generations, and with her skills, her family taught her to hunt and trap in increasingly difficult circumstances for added challenges. Esser and her late twin brother were children of the apocalypse, born before but raised through it. The two of them fought every day with their own family to protect their microcosm of life, until it was flattened by an airstrike during a routine material gathering away from home.

Siete doesn't know the specifics of Six's background. The journal makes him assume he'd be below Esser and Song's levels, but when thrown into a world where he needed to survive, he did just that. His failing eyes make him reluctant to help in foraging, but instead of staying behind at a camp, he becomes their dedicated guard. His hearing has heightened in partial absence of his vision, and he nullifies threats before they come close. He's a fast hunter and an efficient killer with a precise hand, and the three of them don't mince words about how much they appreciate Six's skills.

Siete is a natural leader and has always been in good physical shape. He jokes about owning shit-grade katanas from anime conventions and mall specialty shops to invite laughter from the other three, knowing that they're unsure about whether he's telling the truth or not. Like the rest of them, he wants nothing more than to live, and that driving force keeps his energy high. He doesn't know whether they'll ever find anything like a promised land, but the alternative is dying—and for him, that's no alternative at all.

At night, they tell stories of the ones they've lost to keep memories alive. The most that Esser talks is when she talks about her twin brother; Siete, having known them for a while, corroborates what he can. The pair was inseparable and willing to die for each other, but only one could do it first.

Her stories are the most sobering. Siete is old enough to remember a life before the apocalypse, Song was isolated enough that the pandemic took time to find her community in the mountains, and Six has his father's words to supplement his early childhood memories. Esser and her brother have known nothing but ruin since they were old enough to remember.

Song shares stories about her fiancée, ending every other story with how she and Esser would have enjoyed going to gun ranges together. Esser always expresses doubt that she'd ever learn to shoot in a world without the apocalypse, but the speed at which she acquires new skills says otherwise. Song has the most stories to tell, taking place both during and before the apocalypse. She keeps the memories of those she's loved an open secret, always and never lonely at the same time.

Six doesn't speak much, but like his voice, his stories are the quietest among the four of them, blending in with the crackle of the campfire or the wind blowing against their shelters. He talks, mostly, about the present—something that the rest are incapable of doing for too long, but he laces each word with gratitude instead of dwelling on the futility of their expedition. He thanks Esser for her long-range support when he'd stumbled trying to alert them of danger. He reports back to Song about her hopeful, transparent remedies for his diminishing vision, theorizing that the flowers here aren't the same as the ones from the mountains she grew up in. He reacts to Siete's jokes and comments and stories, carrying the conversation no matter how many times he complains about how ridiculous they are.

The journal's contents remain a secret between the two of them. For Six, it must be easier to focus on the pain of the present than the happiness he lost from his past.

Siete has the most variety, both of the people involved and of the moods attached to each one. He always needs a moment before launching into his adventures with Uno, his oldest friend, who sacrificed himself to lead danger away from their group. (He's still not sure whether he's dead or only missing.) It's impossible to tell stories about Okto without talking about Funf, including the moment of their shared demise. _He swore to me that h__is daughter __would never be alone in her life, __no matter how short__,_ he says, _and he followed through with that to the end_.

A smile blooms on his face when he remembers Sarasa, larger than life, so much so that death was forced to take her with her infallible grin and her _see y__a__ later!_ Whenever Song hums to herself, he pretends that Nio is still here to sing with her; she understood people's hearts too deeply to remain in a world that had fallen to cruelty for survival. When he sees their campfires reflect in Esser's eyes, flickering as she starts on another story, he remembers Quatre the way she does, who extended far beyond his reach for the sake of those he cared for until death had had enough of chasing him, flames licking at his heels.

The variety of stories Siete tells grows with time.

They joke about Song like she's still there, the way she was before, and then they turn sombre when it becomes too much to bear. They all agree that they could never match her incredible ability to love even when it seemed impossible, and some nights, it feels like she never left them.

Then, when their campfire crackles down, and they throw sand over the embers and watch the light disappear, they think of Esser, whose eyes witnessed too much destruction to continue being their sharpshooter. He only hoped that wherever she ended up, she was with her brother and the rest of the family they had within their faction. It's inevitable that when he remembers Esser, he'll start telling Six about Quatre and the rest of Stardust Town like they were his own family.

Six talks more about himself now that they're alone together. Siete dreads the possibility of taking his stories and passing them on in his absence.

* * *

Sometimes, they don't tell stories. Sometimes, all they have the energy for is surviving.

"Imagine that." Siete laughs over a small campfire, days (_weeks?_) since they'd lost the other two, with not another soul in sight. Keeping track of time in an apocalyptic world is near impossible, and after a point, he stopped wanting to know. "If you didn't join us, I'd be alone right now."

Six snorts. "I'm sure you would have found another poor soul to bother."

More and more, Siete lets himself be selfish and stares at him longer than is polite. Despite how Six's face has become more gaunt, he's still unfairly handsome. He hides it behind scarves and face masks to protect him during fights like Siete does, but when he has a moment to breathe like now, Siete isn't shy about drinking in all the details.

"They wouldn't have been you," Siete says, lost in memorizing the details of his face. Six tilts his head at him.

"Factually, that is correct." His tone is neutral. Siete thinks he's crossed a line.

It's a line he's been toeing for a long time. With only the two of them left, he doesn't feel so boisterous anymore, finding comfort in non-verbal reassurance. He'll put a hand on Six's shoulder to steady himself, or nudging him with an elbow to point something out, or hold him too close when they're protecting each other in battle.

It's hard to remember how to be human without company. But it's easy to feel invincible with someone by his side.

The most dangerous word in the apocalypse is _maybe_, with close contenders being _should_ and _could_. Siete becomes a liability if he thinks he can afford to spend hours wondering about how things could have been, but the only three things he can think about are his past, his present, and Six—and one of those things causes less pain than the other two.

Maybe—there's that word, _maybe—_under less strenuous circumstances, he could have fallen in love with Six.

He tries to tell himself that it doesn't matter, because all that matters is surviving in the present they've been dealt_. _(And then he tells himself it doesn't matter because in _this_ present, in _this_ life, he's already fallen in love with Six for all that he is and all that he isn't. Six has so much conviction that it's impossible not to love him.)

When he allows that thought to exist instead of denying it, he feels one weight lift off his shoulders and another take its place.

It's not hard to love someone when you two might as well be the only people left in the world, but that can't chase away the thought that Six deserves a better opportunity than _we have nothing left and we're lonely_. If Siete could give the world to him and start over in a time where he had a choice, he would.

"Siete?"

Six's voice cuts through his inner monologue. He startles and looks back up. Six looks concerned now, biting the inside of his cheek, but he never looks away. "Huh? Yeah."

"You seem tired. I'll take first watch." Six just thinks he's _tired._ Six has no idea about his inner turmoil. "You've been saying odd things all night. It may be beneficial for both of us for you to rest more tonight."

"It's not that," Siete says before he can stop himself.

"Then what is it?"

His heart is beating in his chest. He doesn't know whether to be earnest or not. They would still be forced to work together even if Siete chose to sacrifice their unspoken partnership by attempting apocalyptic intimacy. He aims for an unaffected smirk. "Should I cut the shit?"

Six rolls his eyes. "That would be a first for you." His cheeks look like they're turning red, but maybe he's finding attraction where it doesn't exist so two people can be kept together to survive. They _would_ survive better as a pair than apart.

He could say anything. Propositioning sex would be easiest. It would be the easiest way to release pent up energy, frustrations, and any conflicting emotions without having to give it thought, and they could put the incident behind them as an isolated one.

Instead, he asks, "Can I kiss you?"

This time, Siete doesn't hide how Six captivates his attention. His smirk softens until it's the same fond, idiotic grin that he shoots at the back of Six's head when he's not looking, or when he watches Six sleeping before waking him up to switch patrol shifts.

Six's mouth opens and closes, and the blush on his cheeks that he thought was only a trick of the light becomes more concrete. "Don't trip over yourself trying to get here," he eventually mumbles, breaking eye contact. Siete almost laughs. They're both lonely, attached men in a cold world.

He doesn't stumble, but his knees are weak as he moves closer to Six, cupping his face. He's never had the opportunity to look at him this closely, and he's struck with the paralyzing thought that he doesn't want to let go. He strokes his thumbs against Six's cheek, tracing scars.

"You said you wanted to kiss me, but all you're doing is staring at me."

"I'm always staring at you, to be fair."

"I know." Siete doesn't even have the time to be embarrassed about being exposed like that. More than just hearing Six's voice, he can feel it. He lets out a choked breath that Six reacts to instantly, and he retreats into himself. "Are you going to start crying?"

"No," Siete lies, and then he leans in.

He's had better kisses in his life, but none have ever made him feel what this one makes him feel. Six's hand rests against the back of his neck and pulls him closer, the most intimate contact he's initiated since they've met.

Six stutters in his kiss like he did with his words, taking moments to pull away and breathe. Siete waits for him, and every time, he comes back for more, becoming insistent. "I've—I've never—" he starts, just a breath away from Siete's lips, and Siete opens his eyes to look at him.

"It doesn't really matter," Siete says, pecking him at the corner of his lips. "Whatever feels good is all that matters right now."

"What about _you_?" Six asks.

They might not even be on the same page. Neither of them are being forward. "Me? I feel like I'm about to pass out."

Six's reaction is immediate. "Do you need assistance?" His voice has a hint of panic, and he retracts his arms from where they've tangled with Siete's.

"I need your lips back on mine," Siete clarifies, trying not to laugh and failing. Six looks at him again and then realization sinks in, turning his expression exasperated.

"Don't joke like that," Six says, so raw with emotion that Siete feels his repressed tears rise back to the surface.

"Sorry," he says, meaning it, and then kisses him again.

Their touches turn desperate, like they're about to die and have nothing left to live for but each other. Siete thinks it's funny that it's the first time he's thought that, because they've always been one step away from dying.

They extinguish their campfire but ignite a new flame. Reluctant to separate, they stumble into their temporary shelter, peel off each other's clothes, and fall onto their makeshift bedding. This is the most dangerous thing they've done, but pretending for a few hours that the world isn't ending has always been high risk, high reward.

(Pretending, under better circumstances, that they would still find each other and fall in love.)

* * *

In a world where everything has been reduced to a hush, Six's heartbeat is the loudest thing he's ever heard. It resonates through his body where they lie, skin to skin, each heartbeat a second closer to the sunrise.

"When you found me, I was prepared to die where I was." Six sighs and presses closer to him. "I knew I had been left behind."

He never elaborated on the circumstances of his past, and Siete never pressed. The apocalypse gave everyone baggage. Who was he to unpack it when it was unwanted? But he thinks he sees an invitation, and he offers one of his own in return. "Left behind?"

Whatever reservations Six might have had about his past seem to be gone now. He lays his head against Siete's chest, ear pressed against his rib cage, and sighs. "A group found my father and I, and he told me to hide with as many of our things as I could before he met with them.

"The group took everything that they could, including my father. I don't know whether he joined them or if they killed him, but I never expected him to come back." Six breathes out, and it could almost be a laugh. "I never expected anyone to come back."

"I would," Siete says without thinking. The rashness of the thought doesn't mean insincerity.

"Only because in this present moment, you have no other options for company," Six retorts easily. Siete can't parse either his voice or his words for his true feelings. "There will come a time where the best decision for you is to leave me behind, or for the reverse to be true."

"Best for who?" he asks, and Six doesn't answer.

They need to sleep before they begin their next leg of travel. The sky is already lighter than it was a few minutes ago, and Siete feels anxiety creep through his veins not at the ever-present danger that surrounds them, but of sleeping and waking up and losing the small oasis of peace they've found together.

Six's breathing is starting to even out. He still frowns in his sleep. This time, though, Siete can reach down and smooth out the crease between his eyebrows with his thumb until Six relaxes on his own. He can touch, now. He can reach for him.

"If there's ever a situation where I'd have to leave you behind for my own sake," he mutters, "it wouldn't be for my sake at all."

He thought Six was asleep, but he answers without missing a beat. "You would be foolish to place my own well-being over yours."

"I _am _foolish. That's not news to you."

Six shifts, unsticking their skin and nestling his head into the crook of his neck. His ears tickle Siete's cheek. "Rest," Six says, lips moving against his skin. Six was always better at talking about the present rather than dwelling on past happiness.

* * *

Following that night, they exchange less words, but offer more in touches. They know the wordless affection they share will be their undoing. If they were to talk about what they have outside their blankets and the cover of night, it would only invite danger. The world is quiet. The world is listening.

Even in the echoes of their thoughts, they invite danger. At night, when Siete should be sleeping, he instead watches Six's figure keeping guard for them. He imagines scenarios of getting to know him in the comfort of the world before it collapsed. Would Six have the same sharp edges under the moonlight? Would he have had problems sleeping? Could Siete reach out with a gentle hand and quiet words, enough to convince him to come back to bed and get some rest?

The car they've jumpstarted is more of a hazard than an asset, and there are too many obstacles on the road for Siete to drive in the same manner that he did before all infrastructure broke down, but they need to move. They've spent too much time here with no people and increasing environmental hazards, but the greatest danger is the silent _thing_ they hold between them.

They need new scenery, because Siete feels like he has the liberty to _wonder_. Even now, as he drives and prays that the car won't break down, he glances over to see Six gripping the passenger's seat tight. Siete's willing to bet that before the apocalypse, Six would never feel that much fear sitting in the passenger seat with him driving. The car is crawling slowly through obstacles, and Six has the windows rolled down to listen to any impending danger, but Siete's focus isn't absolute. When they clamber past torn down apartment building and ransacked shops, thoughts of where Six would have lived and where he would have worked bombard him.

He sighs with relief as he steadies the car onto a patch of road long and smooth enough for Six to start drifting off—both for Six to have temporary peace and for himself to get his thoughts back into order.

Six's hand reaches out, just to rest on his thigh, but it slips off as he falls asleep. He thinks that these small, quiet gestures would have been the same in every universe.

* * *

It doesn't matter if there's a safe haven. They won't live to find it.

Their car broke down with a spectacular explosion, destroying half of their supplies and attracting everything that meant bad news in the area. They took everything they could and escaped into an abandoned rest stop, but they can only delay their eventual demise. There is no stopping it.

This place has already been ransacked, and there are too many openings and not enough exits. As a final insult, fall is giving way to winter, leaving behind heavy downpours in its transition. The rain sticks their tattered clothes to their skin and saps their body heat, but it doesn't deter the zombies' advance, even as it rips the sagging flesh from their bones.

For the first time in a long time, Siete feels his optimism fade. They don't speak as they make their dead-end room as safe as they can, and the sun has almost set by the time he finishes boarding the window with the final layer of rotten wood. He turns to see Six sitting on a table that they used to barricade the door. His knees are drawn up to his chest for his head to rest on, and he hugs himself as he tries to steady his breathing.

Siete walks up to him, but at the sound of his footsteps, Six raises his head and glares. This is the first time Six has glared at him like this. It's more effective at freezing him in place than the damp clothes clinging to his body.

Guilt consumes him, and he bites his lip as he tries to find the right words. He was the one that convinced Six to leave his relative safety to join them. He's so desperate to bring any comfort to Six that if he could go back in time and refrain from bargaining with the stranger that Six once was, he would. He would have picked another building to stay in. He would never convince Six to join an aimless excursion with no other outcome but death.

He's never before wanted so much to keep a semblance of normalcy in the fucking _apocalypse_, a world marked by impermanence. He wants to run fool's errands for Six's sake until the moment he breathes his last breath.

Six's glare continues, but it reveals other things that Siete's initial shock caused him to overlook—desperation instead of anger, despondency instead of frustration.

"It's funny," Six barks. He sounds furious. He sounds broken. It doesn't sound funny at all. "You've cursed me."

Siete, for once, is at a loss for words. So he does what he should whenever Six wants to talk: he waits, and he listens. Even when Six pushes him away, he comes back to meet in the middle.

With a choked laugh, he continues. "I waited for an eternity in that safe house knowing no one was going to return for me. My rations were almost depleted. I gave your group almost everything I had and merely pretended I had more stored away." His voice becomes strangled. "I was prepared to die, and then _you _came."

He lifts his head from his knees. He kicks a leg off the table, chucks off his boot, and hikes up his pant leg.

Siete knows what Six is revealing before he looks. It's not difficult to imagine the coloured mess of infection on his leg. He's seen it before on other people, in his dreams, in his waking life. But seeing it in front of his eyes, affecting someone he loves in real time, makes his heart stops dead in his chest.

Their time has always been limited. He abandoned the idea of a fairy tale romance long ago and settled for imagining a mundane life with Six, but even _that_ was so unattainable that it became his happily ever after. His mind regales him with thoughts of holding Six in a comfortable bed, coming home from work to see him napping on the couch, making him dinner, exchanging lazy kisses, taking showers together, being intimate without the desperation. They're a dangerous distraction from the current situation, but it's the only way he can hold onto his sanity.

He chokes trying to catch his next breath. Six's glare fades to show its true colours, the plea for Siete to stay by his side_._ As panicked as Siete feels, Six must be feeling it tenfold.

There are so many things Siete can offer, and of all those, he makes a joke instead. "You think I could suck the poison out of that and cure you?" He regrets saying that the moment he finishes, but if the fragile smile he wears falls, the rest of him will follow.

Six stares at him, his expression unreadable. He gives Siete the decency of not reacting to it. "I was prepared to die. And yet, with you, I have the fight to live once again." Six's voice softens. "Do me the favour of killing me before it takes over."

Both of them have a gun with a single bullet. While Siete struggles to form a response, Six takes his own from its holster and shoves it at his chest.

Siete takes the gun with trembling hands. He tells himself he's unsteady from the cold and rain, even as he aims it to Six's temple.

Six doesn't look scared at all.

He should be glad that Six can't see him on the verge of tears. He's talked about only seeing vague shapes for a while now, and he's become less indignant about relying on Siete to guide him.

Even still, Six looks him directly in the eyes. He might know how much of a mess Siete looks, no matter what.

Six's eyes are ablaze with determination and an acceptance that Siete isn't capable of right now. He considers himself someone with a strong resolve, but in this moment, Six is something else entirely. Regardless of how they carry on from here, there's only one thing left to say.

"I love you," Siete blurts out. It feels like a good final thing to say. It feels like the right thing to say. A part of his brain says, _you only loved him because you were the only two left, _and he snaps back with _I __cannot__ feel for every single person the way I feel about Six now. _

Six's lips curl up into a smile. "A pity," he says. He must intend for it to be mocking as a parting gift to make it easier for Siete, but his voice breaks. Heartbreak, barely-restrained, reflects in his eyes when nothing else can.

"Do you really want those to be your last words?" Siete sounds desperate to his own ears. Six doesn't react.

_He_ doesn't want those to be Six's last words. He wants something better for Six. He wants his last words to be something like, _thank you_, or _I love you_, and they don't even have to be for Siete. When he thinks of last words, he thinks of Six living to old age, with whoever he loves by his side, and looking out to the sunrise and saying—

"Nothing cool?" he continues. He has a coughing fit to cover up how his throat constricts. His laugh sounds delirious, and he blinks faster to hold back the tears. He hurries to speak, trying to postpone his inevitable sob. "If you need suggestions, there's 'I'll walk into hell backwards and face God', or 'Hasta la Vista, suckers', a classic—"

Six rolls his eyes, and then he pulls Siete in to kiss him.

The gun clatters to the ground as he holds onto Six like a lifeline. He gasps into his mouth like he's forgotten how to breathe until Six reminded him. Their bodies warm up in seconds, and Siete thinks about how that's the warmest his body will ever be for a long time.

Suddenly, Six cries out in pain. He almost falls off the table doubling over, and through all of the layers Siete has on, he feels his nails dig into his back. "Siete," he wheezes. "Not to alarm you, but—it's painful." He breathes in and out, lungs desperately seeking air. He sounds like he could be laughing. "It hurts."

Siete rubs his back, hoping his arms are a safe place to rest. "It'll be okay."

"It won't be." Six holds on tighter, burying his head in Siete's chest. They stay like that for a few moments, and the panic rises in Siete again as he realizes that any other options they have are running out.

Six retracts his hands from his back, using them to push him away. "You know what you have to do—"

"No, there has to be another way. There has to be," Siete says, approaching him again. He won't leave Six behind if there's any way around it. "I'll tourniquet your leg—"

"And then remove it? How will you prevent the open wound from becoming infected? How are you sure that the infection hasn't already spread through the rest of my body?"

He has no answer.

"Siete," he says. The plea is clear.

He still has no answer, so he doesn't say anything. Six doesn't push him away when he carries him to a sitting position on the ground, leaning his back against the wall.

Siete sits in front of him. "If I could have any other way, I would." He knows that doesn't answer any of the trials that they've been faced with, but with a slow crawl to death, Siete wants to say everything he can to make sure Six knows, until the last moment, how much he cares.

"I know." Six smiles at him. "I had no reason to believe you at first. But you continue to put yourself in danger for no reason by allowing me to live." His speaking is getting slower, but he still powers through while still being as verbose as possible. Siete could kiss him. "At least your foolishness is consistent."

While he's speaking, Siete takes the gun to check if the bullet is still there. It hasn't gone anywhere. It's mocking him. "They say love makes you blind," he jokes as he turns the safety off, "but my vision's still fine, huh? Can't imagine how much you love me to _literally_ go blind, especially knowing how much I love you."

When he looks back up, Six is grinning so wide that he can't do anything but stare. He's forgotten how to breathe again.

"I wish there were a way for me to express the breadth of my emotions for you other than agreeing with your jest."

Six's knuckles are white from how tightly he's balled them into fists. He grits his teeth when he finishes speaking, and every inhale looks like he's drowning underwater. He's starting to lose control over his limbs; his legs kick out, and he shifts to sit on top of his hands. But through all of that, he lifts his head and looks at Siete.

His grin widens. Both of his fangs are showing now. "Siete—please, stop delaying." The first time Six's wordy habit is kicked, and it's because of how desperately he needs to get each word out. The process of speaking has become a burden to him. It's Siete's fault that he got to this point, his own selfish desire to save a doomed man. "I'm sure you'll—find someone else to bother in no time—Siete, _please_."

One last time, Siete cradles his face and guides their lips together. "They won't be you," he whispers.

Six barks out a laugh, tears indistinguishable from Siete's.

* * *

In a world where every sound has been reduced to a hush, the resounding gunshot deafens him.

**Author's Note:**

> title from _to build a home_ – the cinematic orchestra, because of course.
> 
> this originally had the comment "ambiguous ending?", but all my friends that read this first wanted to stab me for saying it was. also i first wrote this in april and it was only 2845 words! it got worse.  
this might have an epilogue but... this is torture enough without it, i think


End file.
